


"But the voice inside sings a different song, what is wrong with me?"

by aidennestorm



Series: Hamilton Prompt Table (Lin-Manuel Miranda Lyrics Edition) [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, Explicit Sexual Content, Intrusive Thoughts, M/M, Power Dynamics, Rape Fantasy, Rough Sex, implied mutual pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 09:57:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13164534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aidennestorm/pseuds/aidennestorm
Summary: He ponders how much more devotion Hamilton would give, if asked. And,worse, even if not asked: if demanded, ordered,claimedwith the craving that makes Washington’s arms ache in anticipation totake, damn the consequences— simply because he can.Because he wants to.





	"But the voice inside sings a different song, what is wrong with me?"

**Author's Note:**

> Chinese translation made available by [fantuantuantuantuan](http://fantuantuantuantuan.lofter.com/post/1e9c27fd_12127aa5). Thank you!

Madness. It must be. Attributable to the consequences of his station, his duty, his _responsibility_. Understandable, if unconscionable, that it would manifest like _this,_  the need to seize control in the only manner even partially available to him. It is easy enough, Washington thinks, to command one man, even one as brash and headstrong as Hamilton, but nigh impossible to effectively command thousands. _An entire army._

So when Lee taunts, "Washington cannot be left alone to his devices," they are damning words truer than his newest general can ever know. His dissenting soldiers, Lee included, brazenly call him indecisive, incompetent— but at least _immoral_ is one epithet they haven’t yet hurled. Washington— this army— the very future of this new country they are building brick by bloody brick— cannot afford for anyone to see the stain that lurks under his skin.

Because the entire army has never inspired such _feelings_ — and it’s too imprecise, too _false_ , to dismiss them as mere expressions of the forbidden desires he so desperately hides. His perpetual _wanting_ for Hamilton is a low, curled heat in his gut, simmering and ever present, fantasies of holding his boy tight, breathing in his scent, pressing lingering kisses to his sun warmed skin.

But truly, these… _impulses_ are far from desire or wanting, far from the sweetness of Hamilton’s lips or the tilt of his grin or the mischief in his eyes. Instead, they are the thunderous pulse of blood in Washington’s veins, his skin tight, unsettled, too hot. The feverish urge that plagues him when Hamilton— this complicated, enticing, _maddening_ contradiction of a man— lets his mouth run untamed and his shoulders square in any of a hundred imagined affronts, even while his gaze lands unerringly on Washington’s face, heavy with the thrum of an attempt to be obedient. To be _good_.

Only Providence can judge his worth based on his iniquitous thoughts, he rationalizes, but he cannot truly believe it… because he ponders how much _more_ devotion Hamilton would give, if asked. And, _worse_ , even if not asked: if demanded, ordered, _claimed_ with the craving that makes Washington’s arms ache in anticipation to _take,_ damn the consequences— simply because he can.

Because he wants to.

Sitting in his usual chair in the corner of a cramped dining room filled with busy aides, Hamilton scribbling missives at his elbow, as always, Washington sees the scene unfold like a vision, like a portent: dropping his quill and reaching out, _right now._ Fisting his hands in that tightly plaited dark hair, yanking Hamilton’s head back to see him gasp in sudden pain and the quill clatter from his hand, throat exposed and working in a nervous swallow. Locking onto the beautiful skin above his cravat, marking him with lips and teeth in purpling bruises impossible to hide. The slight tremble in his boy’s slender frame as his hands grasp for purchase on Washington’s jacket— to fight fiercely or to submit willingly?

The plaintive, stunned sob of _"_ _Sir,"_  as he drags Hamilton to his knees, Hamilton’s wide eyes fixed on his hard cock when Washington tugs down his uniform barely enough to take himself in hand. Pulling on Hamilton’s hair to see his damnable mouth fall open, forcing himself inside that wet, blissful heat, dragging Hamilton down his length in an unpredictable, brutal rhythm until he holds Hamilton’s lips stretched around the root of his cock, spilling deep with a groan while Hamilton gags and chokes around him, throat fluttering, eyes red-rimmed and pricked with tears—

Or. If he improbably tires of the pleasure of his mouth, withdrawing with such force Hamilton retches and rasps for breath. Shoving a dazed Hamilton onto his stomach, seizing his uniform trousers and renting them apart with a single jerk of his hand, the distracting swell of Hamilton’s bare ass inflaming him further. Tugging Hamilton’s legs apart and fitting himself between his warm thighs, spit and precome easing the way as he holds himself steady with one hand and pins Hamilton’s wrists above his head with the other, panting into his neck when he fucks inside and seats himself fully, so tight and _perfect,_  the shattered keen torn from Hamilton’s chest utterly dizzying—  
  
"—Sir?"  
  
Washington blinks. Hamilton stands waiting by his side, holding a sheaf of parchment expectantly, his steady gaze curious and piercing.

"Very good," Washington says gruffly, any other words he might have chosen sticking in his throat. He deliberately gentles his grip around the quill in his hand, unmistakably now bent a little, a barely perceptible fracture that Hamilton, attentive as he is, still takes in with a quick, quiet sweep of his eyes. The violent impulse rears up again, nearly too difficult to resist; Hamilton is _right here_ for the taking, so unerringly loyal in his place at his general’s right hand—

It is only the barest brush of Hamilton’s skin against his own as he holds out the parchment more insistently that shocks Washington back to himself— remembering where they _are_ , what’s at stake, with a horrified jolt. An abrupt scan of the room shows the remainder of the staff intent on their own work— as always, only Hamilton seeing too much.

Though his composure is already fractured under Hamilton’s scrutiny, he allows himself one slow, sighed breath only, carefully avoiding any further touches as he plucks the document from Hamilton’s nimble, ink stained fingers, scrawling his signature under Hamilton’s neat handwriting and setting it aside. "Carry on, Hamilton."

Mercifully, Hamilton, for once, refrains from an argument and visibly bites back a comment. He bows his head, shuttering some surge of feeling from his face with a displeased press of his lips, departing his side with a huffed, "Yes, sir."

As Washington should have been doing for months, as he will _have_ to do until this accursed war is over, he does not watch the sway of Hamilton’s hips as he walks away— instead, he stares unblinkingly at his quill and tries to determine how to harden his heart against his beautiful, brilliant young aide, silently pleading to the God who has not yet answered his prayers that it will be enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [dreamlittleyo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo) for cheerleading and the lovely prompt table!! Come find me on [tumblr](http://aidennestorm.tumblr.com/).


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